


of pale skin & fragile bones

by purloinedinpetrograd



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Stiles Angst, mama stilinksi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purloinedinpetrograd/pseuds/purloinedinpetrograd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles have the talk that’s been hovering over them for ages, and for once, Stiles isn’t sure what to say, and Derek needs him to say something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of pale skin & fragile bones

**Author's Note:**

> oh man, my first foray into Teen Wolf! and of course, it's a bucket full of angst. It's not beta read, but I proof read it myself as best as I could. I'm a notoriously unreliable proof reader though, so sorry in advance if any mistakes managed to sneak by me.

Derek and Stiles have the talk that’s been hovering over them for ages, at last, late one night as Derek and Stiles lay entwined in Stiles' bed. Derek’s body is curled around his and a large hand runs over a bruise blooming on the skin of his arm. The only light that enters his room is the little bit of star light that manages to filter in through his curtains, the night sky dark in the new moon.  
  
The bruise certainly isn’t the worst Stiles has ever received, but it seems to be bothering Derek even more than any of the others have, because he keeps running his fingers over it; had even licked it before, and Stiles is still getting used to these weird werewolf habits because that one took him by surpise, and it’s been the center of Derek’s attention for at least a half hour now.  
  
“You know, the pressure of your fixation on that bruise might actually make it worse,” Stiles finally remarks after an uncharacteristic several minutes of silence.  
  
He can’t see Derek’s face, but he’s sure it’s scrunched up in annoyance. “No it won’t,” Derek says, intentionally ignoring the fact that Stiles isn’t being serious. This is a recurring theme - Stiles is never serious and Derek always acts as if he thinks he is.  
  
“Yes, it will, and even if it doesn’t I’m pretty sure you’ve just worn off several layers of skin there, so if you could let up a bit, that would be great.”  
  
Derek completely ignores this. “You need to be more careful,” he says, issuing the warning instead, forehead falling nape of Stiles' neck.  
  
“I need to be more careful?” Stiles asks, voice incredulous and high enough that he nearly cracks on the “I”. He has, he tells himself, every reason to. “Says the guy who routinely shows up unarmed to fight men with guns loaded with bullets that can _kill him_ and _want to kill him,_ and whose ungrateful ass has been saved on numerous occasions by yours truly.” He twists slightly to look straight at Derek. “Would you like me to start reciting them? I warn you, it’s going to take a while.”  
  
Derek just shoves Stiles' head back down on the bed. "That’s different, and you know it. I could fall off a ten story building, and get up and walk away… you could fall the wrong way at lacrosse practice and never walk again. Never even be able to use your arms again."  
  
Stiles has a dozen things he could to that, but decides to let Derek finish his little speech instead.  
  
"If anything like that ever happens - if you're ever hurt - I won't be able to let you go." Derek pauses, the arm previously tending to Stiles' bruise now tense around his waist.  
  
 _This_ takes Stiles off guard, because this is it - Derek has just broached the conversation that Stiles knew was coming, but was really hoping to push off a little while longer. He doesn't respond, not right away; he just closes his eyes and listens to Derek's breath against his ear, feels his heart beat against his back. It's a long moment before Stiles speaks. "What do you mean?" he asks, and it’s a stupid question, because he knows Derek's meaning precisely, recognizes it deep within his core, chilling his bones.  
  
Derek doesn't leave Stiles waiting. "I'll give you the bite."  
  
"I don't..." Stiles begins, about to say 'I don't want to be a werewolf', but that isn't quite right.  
  
"But I want to be human," he says instead, because that _is_ right, that's the one thing Stiles knows about himself for sure, even as his world is being constantly redefined around him. He's Stiles. As he once told Scott in a fit of frustration, he's 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones and an armor of sarcasm and as it turns out, that is his greatest asset. He knows this is true even when no one else does, and he's okay with that, because it's a truth for himself alone.  
  
Derek simply tilts his head, pressing his lips against the soft spot beneath Stiles' ear, savoring the rush of blood he can nearly taste flowing beneath the thin skin, memorizing it. "I'm not talking about turning you just to keep you safe," Derek tells him, voice low, just barely above a whisper. Stiles can feel his throat vibrate with each word. He knows the words that are unsaid: 'Even though I want to and you won't let me.' He doesn't bother addressing them. "I'm talking about turning you in order to keep you… _you_ ," Derek tries to explain again, but it doesn't really matter, because Stiles knew what he meant - knew he was talking about a worst case scenario. If Stiles were sane, if Stiles were normal - well, he would have already said "yes, that's fine," because really - what's a couple of wolf instincts and hunters out to kill you, when it also means you're alive? You're _whole_?  
  
But if Stiles were normal, he would have said yes to the bite to begin with, and this conversation would never have been necessary. Stiles doesn’t speak, and in lieu of an actual response, curls up into himself a bit, suddenly missing the warmth of Derek's knees against the back of his as he brings them towards his chest.  
  
It probably catches Derek by surprise when Stiles doesn't respond, doesn't utter a single syllable, because when is Stiles ever silent? The answer is pretty much never - even when he should be, and more accurately, probably, is especially when he should be. But Stiles can't bring himself to respond, because while he could, make no mistake, retaliate with an endless string of  thoughts and arguments, they'd only get so jumbled up that he wouldn't even be able to find his point anymore. They wouldn't be _planned_ : they wouldn't be carefully chosen not to sting, to hurt, and they would tumble out of his mouth before he could decide if they were going to, and, if nothing else, Stiles does not want to hurt Derek.  
  
The important thing about that, of course, is that Stiles _could_ hurt Derek, that he had somehow managed to worm his way past whatever barriers Derek had put up - and this was not for a lack of  enough barriers, or thick enough walls; Derek is the king of keeping his cards close to his chest and not letting his poker face slip. But somehow Stiles had just sort of - wandered through them, had found a crack and slid right in, and by the time either of them had noticed he had already curled himself around Derek's heart and found it to be warm.  
  
This, once realized, was not something that Stiles took lightly. While he may not have built himself a fortress of emotional distance, Stiles still doesn't have that many people close to his own heart, either; people for him to love, to rely on, to protect - and he has already lost one of them - and Derek himself has lost even more. So, Stiles knows, even if Derek would never admit it, that while his walls are strong, he is achingly vulnerable behind them and Stiles has made himself a home where Derek could hurt the most. But Stiles is cognizant of this fact, _knows_ how much Derek has come to trust him if he's let him in this far, and he never wants to do anything to betray that trust. To betray Derek.  
  
Except, of course, there is this - the worst he can do to Derek is to leave him ( _to be hurt, to die_ , Stiles' mind supplies him, a quiet, treacherous voice). And he lives in a world where the wrong step in lacrosse could be his last; the misfire of a gun could pierce his heart - his lungs - his spine  -- and that would be that. While Derek can protect him, he cannot be there all the time; but he _can_ turn pale skin to kevlar, solidify his bones to steel -  
  
All at the small, small price of his humanity. And for all that Stiles is willing to give, he is not yet ready to let that go. So, for once, Stiles chooses to be silent, even though this is one of the rare times that Derek needs to hear his voice.  
  
Luckily for them both, Derek is comfortable with silence and he adapts quickly, so instead of waiting for a response that will never come if not forced, he shifts away from Stiles, the arm around his waist turning him onto his back. Derek pulls himself up, balancing himself on his forearms, body hovering over Stiles. He stares down at wide brown eyes and a slightly parted mouth before shifting some of his weight so that he can claim him in a kiss, swallowing all the words that were building behind those lips yet were never to be spoken.  
  
If Stiles' life were a romance novel, then he would use this kiss to somehow communicate to Derek everything that he couldn't articulate; each gentle scrape of Derek's lip with his teeth would be imbued with apology and every sweep of his tongue would be laced with his loyalty, and the curl of his fingers as he grasps Derek's hair at the back of his head would be a novel written in gestures of how much he needs this man here, with him, always - forever.  
  
And as the laws of romance novels dictate, Stiles would be able to read in this kiss the messages that Derek wishes to send him as well, yet cannot be put into words; each bite of his bottom lip he would know to be a whisper of 'I need you', and every touch of Derek's tongue to his would be a reaffirmation of his trust, and each needy growl ripped from Derek's throat would be to Stiles' ears a more poetic declaration of his love than Shakespeare could ever hope to pen.  
  
However, even though sometimes it doesn't feel like it, Stiles still lives in reality. Here, the kiss is far from perfect: it's just a little too hard, a little too desperate; their teeth clash a little too much for it to be comfortable and they let the other steal the breath from their lungs a little too long.  
  
Most importantly, however, is that the kiss does nothing to clear the air between them - as they part, breath coming in short gasps as they stare back at each other, not quite meeting the other's eyes, they know that something is wrong between them. Something is broken.  
  
Neither of them tries to bring this to the attention of the other, and a heavy silence hangs between them. It isn't lifted when, at last, Derek slides soundlessly off of Stiles, laying on his side close enough to Stiles for his breath to heat the side of his neck and yet seeming farther away than he has ever been before.  
  
Stiles is still searching for the appropriate words when his thoughts finally sift away and his mind drifts into dreams.  
  
  


\---

  
It is questionable whether or not Stiles is his father's son - but he is unquestionably his mother's. They share the same golden brown eyes, always wide and _always_ sparkling with ideas that are usually no good for anybody; his pale skin is marked with the same scattering of moles as hers.  
  
Their hair is the same warm brown, but Stiles he does not have the wild curls that tumble down his mother’s shoulders, wound tight in ringlets that bounce with each movement. (She’s always moving.)  
  
Their mouths, however, are also the same - not in shape, though, but in how they were always going, and always ready to offer a sharp retort or a sarcastic quip, whether anyone around them wanted one or not. And it is his mother who taught him to always have an excuse for anything on the fly - even if such excuses vary wildly in plausibility.  
  
Stiles' mother is more calculated than he is, though; while Stiles' mind is constantly racing, ideas jumbled in his head and bouncing off of his skull and finding their way to his mouth with little to no control, she carefully chooses her words (though not always wisely); always has thought ahead and knows what she wants to say before she actually does.  
  
That’s really the thing about Stiles' mother - she’s always ahead. Of everyone, all of time. (It’s pretty much impossible to lie to her, and Stiles would be bothered by this more if she called him out on it more often instead of throwing him a knowing wink when his father isn’t looking.)  
  
It’s never been explicitly said, but instead heavily suggested, that Stiles' mother was just as much a troublemaker as Stiles is when she was his age; it’s easily read in the poorly disguised laugh in her eyes and the not-quite-excusatory glances his father throws her whenever he hangs up the phone from a call from school, and when she folds her arms in preparation of scolding him, Stiles has a hard time taking her seriously.  
  
(His father, on the other hand, he takes very seriously.)  
  
Stiles' father tells him often that it’s a mystery how she, of all people, wound up marrying the Sheriff - and Stiles knows it’s hard for her, sometimes. He sees in that look in her eyes that she sometimes gets the same urges as him - to push the boundaries, to bend the rules. She’s a rebel who married the law, and there’s not a whole lot she can get away with anymore like that.  
  
She has her quiet rebellions, still, though - the little things she keeps to herself and she shares with Stiles and keep her sane.  
  
It’s things like now, Stiles thinks to himself as he plays with the seatbelt heavy against his chest that his mother forces him to wear but doesn’t wear herself. When she started the car without touching her own, Stiles was ready to comment, but she just winked at him before he got the chance, telling him, “This is one of those things we don’t tell your father.” Stiles bit back a smile and gave her a quick nod.  
  
“It’s a stupid, little thing,” she explains to him now that they’re on the road, even though he didn’t ask. “But you have to remember, I grew up in a generation that piled too many people into cars and I hung out the backs of convertibles that didn’t even _come_ with seatbelts,” and the thought of a car without seatbelts is exciting to Stiles, who is constantly wrestling with his own.  
  
“I make you wear one, and I know for a fact your father would want me to, as well, but....” She trails off for a moment, pursing her lips, choosing her words. “I need some freedoms, and it’s a small one, but it keeps me sane.” She’s quiet then, turning away from the road to look at Stiles, to see if he understands what she’s saying. “I think that’s worth everything.”  
  
Stiles realizes then that while he doesn’t remember this conversation, he remembers this drive, this road - he remembers, all too clearly, the intersection looming in the distance. He remembers that this isn’t just some small freedom and while he’s not sure it’s worth everything, he knows it’s going to _cost_ everything.  
  
“I’m going fifty miles per hour,” his mother continues in a short, clipped tone that doesn’t sound like her at all, because it’s _not_ her. “Which is the speed limit, but that’s just because you’re in the car. If you weren’t here, I’d be going faster. You remember that, don’t you? Your father was always getting on my case about that, how I used him too much to get out of tickets. I’d probably be going at least twenty miles an hour over, maybe more,” she says, and with that she’s pressing on the accelerator, and he’s being pushed back in his seat as his heart rate seems to increase with their velocity.  
  
He knows this isn’t real, but he still wants to yell at her, to tell her to slow down, to pull over, to stop at the light even though they have a green - but he doesn’t, he can’t; it’s like there’s a huge ball of cotton lodged in his mouth and the words can’t get out around it.  
  
“It isn’t your fault, Stiles,” she says, softer, barely audible over the roar of the engine that’s loud, too loud, “I know - I know sometimes you thought it was, but it really wasn’t.”  
  
And he did, because he knows that in reality there was nothing stopping him from talking just now and so he had been - had been going a mile a minute like he always did, telling some story from school and his mother was laughing at him, and maybe if he had just _shut up_ for once, maybe should would have been paying more attention, maybe she would have noticed the car to their side that clearly wasn’t slowing down -  
  
They’re nearly at the intersection now, and Stiles is trying to scream, trying to get to his mother but his seatbelt locks him in place.  
  
Then he blinks, and he’s not in the passenger’s side anymore. His hands are gripped on the steering wheel, his foot pressing on the accelerator as the speedometer pushes past past seventy, and there’s nothing holding him down. He stares ahead, and he doesn’t even think as he flies by the green light that hangs overhead.  
  
He sees the car out of the corner of his eye just as it makes impact, and before he even hears the roar of the crash he’s already gone through the windshield.  
  


\---

 

Stiles wakes up to a hazy sunlight flickering over his eyelids and a heavy hand placed on his side, shirt bunched up so Derek's skin was hot against his own, fingers curling protectively over the body that lay beneath them. Stiles lets out a small breath of relief at this discovery, because it means that Derek spent the night, Stiles didn't ruin everything, Derek is still _here_.

He may have broken something last night, but he didn’t destroy it.

As Stiles blinks his eyes open, the memory of his dream sort of rolls into his consciousness like a heavy fog, and he can’t quite recall the details, but it feels something like an epiphany nonetheless.

He notices, then, that Derek’s hand on his body is precisely placed - and it occurs to Stiles that it’s the same spot where Scott had born the gashes that turned him.

Stiles flips onto his back, nudging Derek awake with his elbow gently, but it turns out to be unnecessary because he was already up, eyes half-lidded as he gazes at Stiles. The staring-at-him-while-he’s-sleeping thing, Stiles notes to himself, was never going to not be creepy (no matter what Stephenie Meyer tried to tell him), but he’s learned to put up with it nonetheless.

“Watch it with the hand,” Stiles warns him, and Derek’s brows furrow in a confused look. “Don’t think I don’t realize exactly where you were fondling me in my sleep, weirdo,” and Derek’s confusion doesn’t lift until he continues: “I know you’re itching to sink those fangs into this prime cut of Stilinksi,” and he accentuates this with gesture towards himself, “but I thought we agreed that _that_ was off the table for now.”

Derek, of course, completely ignores almost everything Stiles said, latching on instead to his last two words. “For now?” he repeats, and he doesn’t even try to conceal the sharp edge of hopefulness in his voice.

And, in the weak morning sunlight, Stiles has taken a page from his mother’s book and has already chosen his words, has thought, before he speaks, of what he wants to say. “Yeah. For now. Conditions permitting, and all that,” and he shrugs it off as though it’s nothing, but he knows that, to Derek, it’s everything.

“Stiles,” he says, voice sounding like a demand, “are you saying that you’ll - “

Stiles cuts him off, affirming before he can even finish his sentence with a quiet, “Yeah.” And then, after a beat: “It’s ok. If you have to... if you have to give me the bite, I’ll understand.”

Derek seems stunned, like he wasn’t expecting Stiles to acquiesce so quickly after just last night completely shutting down, and to be honest, Stiles wasn’t expecting to, either. But Stiles also knows that he’s not quite given in, so he says it again in case Derek doesn’t yet believe him.

“I’m giving you permission. To bite me... _if_  it becomes necessary,” and he places as much emphasis as he can behind the ‘if’. “I won’t be upset.”

He's not lying, either. Stiles still remembers the sharp burn of loss and still feels the dull throb it leaves even after it's supposed to have healed, and he knows now that he could never begrudge Derek for trying to keep new wounds from opening when the old ones still ache.

This time, Derek seems to believe him and it definitely seems like enough, because he pulls Stiles into a kiss; and maybe his life _is_ a little bit like a romance novel after all, because this kiss is slower than the one from last night and feels a lot like relief and a little bit like ‘Thank you.’

This isn’t to say, though, that Stiles is at all ready to surrender his humanity - for that even to be an option on the table - but what Stiles knows that Derek does not is that he's still his mother's son. He may always remember to put his seat belt on when he gets in the car, but he's still going to crave the next hit of adrenaline that floods his body, to take risks for the ones he loves whether they need him to or not, to rebel against the advice of those who want to keep him safe.

Running with wolves, he's in the driver's seat going over seventy miles per hour and he's not wearing his seatbelt and he's destined to crash.

He's only 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. When he does crash, there'll be nothing left to save.

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me over on tumblr (same name, purloinedinpetrograd). if you liked this, think about stopping by! I need more teen wolf on my dash and I'm always open for fic inspiration and prompts.


End file.
